Lost in LA
by suzjazz
Summary: Set after the season 6 finale. Jane and Lisbon, just married, are staying at the Biltmore and it's the first morning of their honeymoon. Jane has a dream while in the space between sleeping and waking. Warning! spoilers for season 6. I do not own the Mentalist.
1. Chapter 1

The bright morning sunlight has awakened me, but not my sleeping bride, from our first blessed unconsciousness after our wedding. We're in the honeymoon suite on the twenty-first floor of the L.A. Biltmore, in a bed that might as well be cushioned with angels' feathers and scented with divine ambrosia. There is the faint scent of white roses from the bouquets on the nightstands and the tables. I half expect to see an inch-deep layer of rose petals on the floor. I glance across the room and see her white gauze wedding gown hastily discarded on a white satin Louis XIV armchair, along with several articles of lacy white lingerie, her white high-heeled shoes leading a trail to the bed. So much white. Stands for purity. She's pure, of course, but what am I doing here?

My own clothes are in a dishevelled heap somewhere- I can't remember how or when I disrobed when we arrived in a semi-stuporous state from too much champagne at about 2 a.m., in a hurry to leap into bed and devour each other with renewed passion in our first night as a married couple. At some point we both passed out and drifted into an ecstatic, spent sleep, in which my love is still embraced, a stray lock of brilliant raven hair across her unconscious cheek. I look at her, an ageless beauty, tiny, almost childlike, deceptively delicate with skin freckled like a sparrow's breast, soft and unwrinkled. I know this woman to be capable of bringing down a man twice her size and weight, and it never fails to astonish me.

I don't want to wake her, and I don't want to get out of bed. I don't know what time it is and I don't care. I wonder if this is what happiness finally feels like. For a moment I wonder if I'm even awake at all. I feel her warmth next to me and if I listen I can hear her soft and regular breathing. An unknown amount of time passes and I seem to hear a voice drifting from far away. It's not her voice, but it's a female voice that I know.

Charlotte.

Now, I don't believe in the immortal soul or ghosts or the spirit world, and I have wished endlessly that I did. The closest I ever came to belief was when I entered a hallucinogenic trance engendered by drinking belladonna tea at a crime scene. I was sent down an Alice-like rabbit hole (complete with rabbit) and was greeted by my daughter, morphed into an impossibly beautiful blonde teenager, mischievous and mouthy as her father. She remained with me for what seemed like hours, helping me to solve a murder and in the process observing my interaction with Teresa. She teased me, asking "if we'd ever…?!" And she said, "I like her." I continued to address her when only Teresa and I were present, and I will always remember poor Teresa's look of concern and incomprehension until it dawned on her that I was speaking to an hallucination.

You don't have to be a psychiatrist to know that Charlotte was nothing more than my own mind, the thoughts I'd suppressed for years, my desires taking human form. Not only giving my daughter back to me, but also articulating the things I didn't dare admit to myself. Two moments were the most telling: when she said that she and her mother were sick of Red John and wished that I would abandon my quest for revenge so that I could live a normal life and be happy again, and when she asked if anyone knew who I really am. "Lisbon," I croaked, imagining myself straightjacketed in a hospital bed. Lisbon. Yes. The woman I finally married after years of suffering and causing her to suffer. Lisbon.

When "Charlotte" eventually disappeared as the drug wore off, I wanted her back so badly that I got some more belladonna tea to see if I could conjure her again, recklessly disregarding the danger of ingesting the poison. When the attempt failed, leaving me with nothing but a headache and insomnia, I wept, utterly wretched, and was only cheered by the sight of Teresa at the office the next day. I clung to my fondest fantasy that someday I would tell her how I felt…some day after Red John was dead and I no longer had to protect her from him.

Here I am now in a hotel bridal suite with that dream fulfilled, and for the first time since the day I saw Charlotte, I am hearing her voice again. A faintly mocking, teasing voice that doesn't quite conceal her love for her father. (The father who caused her death. And I can't accept her forgiveness.) The voice is getting closer, almost as though she were standing in the room right beside the bed. I don't _see _anything. But the voice is unmistakably hers.

"So you finally did it, Dad!" I imagine the laughing blue eyes.

"Charlotte?" I gasp. "Charlotte! Where are you? I can't see you. Let me see you. Please!"

She laughs in delight. "I knew you would do it. You two are so perfect."

"Please, Charlotte! Just let me see you once more!"

"Shhh…you'll wake her."

"Charlotte," I whisper, "don't go away this time. Stay. Don't ever leave me. I need to see you."

"Dad. I can't stay. The only way I could stay with you is if you died, and I want you to live. You're meant to live, for a long time, with her. I'm just visiting because I had to see the two of you in bed together. Not…doing it…of course-as if!" She laughs again. "I knew the first time I saw her that you needed her and she needed you. Anyone could tell."

I can no longer speak because I'm overcome with emotion.

"I'm also here to give you a message from Mom. She's just as happy as I am. All we've ever wanted is for you to move on and be happy. But you have to forgive yourself. Our deaths were not your fault. It was Red John, and Red John alone, who was responsible. We see now that it was necessary for you to kill him in order to feel reborn. But that rebirth was painful, wasn't it? It didn't feel all peaceful and happy after you did it. You had to run away from Teresa for a long time. And when you finally came back to her, she was angry. You had to win her over and almost lost her-she was about to marry someone else because she thought you didn't love her. You were so afraid. All those years you used Red John as an excuse not to tell her how you felt, when the real reason was that you were terrified. You realized that you didn't know how to behave like a decent human being-just like she said. You realized that you'd lied and cheated and tricked people your whole life and being honest was so scary that it was painful and you didn't know if you could do it. But when it came down to the wire and she was really leaving, you got desperate and told her. We saw all this happen, Dad, and we wished so much that we could help you. But we don't have that power. You had to discover it in yourself. And luckily for you, Teresa knows you so well. And she knew that deep down she was just lying to herself that she could love anyone else. But she needed to hear it from you. And even then, she could have walked away, but she didn't."

"Please stop reminding me of this. You say I should forgive myself, but all I see is a cowardly, weak man who came damn close to ruining his life because simple honesty was so difficult for him."

"Everyone is a coward. You can get rejected if you tell someone the truth. You're no different from anyone else. And as far as lying, cheating, and tricks are concerned: you forget that you made a good living that way, and you were able to provide a good life for Mom and me. Of course it was dishonest, but it was the only life you knew. You can blame your father for raising you to be a con artist."

"A person can't just learn to be honest after a lifetime of deception."

Charlotte made a disdainful sound. "Of course you can."

"See, it's like this: I'm afraid that I will go back to my old deceptive, controlling ways with Teresa, and she'll hate me, and our marriage will be over. Because if I make just one more mistake, she won't forgive me. A person can get only so many second chances."

"And how many has she given you? After a hundred second chances, you think she won't give you just one more?"

"I don't know. But I know that if I blow this, I won't have any reason to go on living."

"So much drama. Come on. She's stronger than you think, and you're stronger, too."

"I wish I could believe you."

"Wasn't I right about Teresa?"

"Yes, but…"

"Dad, Mom and I are always going to be watching you. We can't protect you, and you won't see us or hear us, but we'll be there. We want to see you happy with Teresa. And you can be. But you must forgive yourself, because no matter how many times she forgives you, if you don't forgive yourself, you'll always be miserable. What if Teresa had done all the things you've done that you're ashamed of? Wouldn't you forgive her?"

I can't deny the logic of her question. "Of course."

"So?"

"Charlotte…"

"Try, Dad. Just try it."

"Charlotte. I love you. Please don't go."

"I have to. But I love you too."

"Charlotte?"

Nothing but silence echoes through my head. My face is wet with tears. I don't know if I am awake or asleep and part of me just wants to be dead so I can follow her to wherever she is. I'm sobbing, shaking. Then I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, and a light pair of arms around my neck. "Charlotte?" I whisper. "No, sweetheart, it's me. You've had a bad dream."

I groan, humiliated that she's seen me in tears. "Patrick. It's OK. It's going to be OK. I know you're always going to miss Charlotte terribly, but I'm fine with it. You were a good father." She was about to say something else, but stopped.

"You were going to say, _And you'll be a good father again_. Don't deny it. I know you want children."

"Not if you aren't ready."

"I'll never be ready. It'll take me years just to learn how to be a normal, decent husband. I'm still broken, and you can't fix me. When you agreed to marry me, you agreed to accept damaged goods."

"No. You are not damaged goods. You only think you are."

I turn around on my side to face her and she never lets go of my neck. We gaze at each other for a long moment. Then she strokes my hair. She's trying not to cry. "We probably should have talked about this before getting married. But I want you to know: I didn't marry you to have children. I married you because I want to be with you always."

"I knew I should have let you go with Pike. He could have given you children. He could have been a good father."

"Patrick! How can you say that? You know I never loved him!"

"_He _would have protected his family."

"Oh, I see where this is going. So he never would have mouthed off about a serial killer? Even though he's honest and says what he thinks and you always know where he stands? You really think he could have saved his family from Red John?"

I sigh, extricate myself from her arms, and lie with my back against the opulent pillows.

"It's just that he's…he's the better man. He deserved you more than I do. He could make you happier."

She sits up, then straddles me. She's naked, and her pale skin is glowing in the sunlight. Her long, thick dark hair curls in tendrils over her shoulders. She had her hair cut for the wedding. Now she has long bangs which make her exquisite eyes look even larger. The raven black color is highlighted with red, making her look daring and exotic. Waves of desire begin to thrill me.

"He could never make me as happy as I am right now." She leans toward me and kisses me on the lips, lingering, and I linger, wanting this moment to last, to chase away Charlotte's ghost. I want Teresa to heal me, to take away the pain, even though I know she can't, that it's unfair to ask it of her.

"I knew from the first moment I met you that you were a good man. I have instincts about people, maybe it's my cop training, but I could see through your ragged and desperate appearance, that homeless look you had. I admit that I hoped you wouldn't come back the next day because I didn't know how to deal with you. Your story had already broken my heart, and I knew I was going to go against regulations and let you see the Red John files. When I agreed to work with you, I was going against my better judgment, I knew you would be trouble, as I've told you before. I admit I wanted to save you. I even thought that God had sent you to me for that reason. I prayed a lot about it. I saw the good in you that no one else saw and sometimes I questioned my sanity. I'm not saying I fell in love with you then, but the seed was planted. I don't remember when I first realized I loved you. I think it was when I watched you kiss Lorelei in the interrogation room. Something in me just snapped, and I felt this terrible pain. My way of dealing with it was getting so angry with you that I couldn't feel the love anymore. Yes, you did a lot of things that hurt me, but we've been through all this and I thought we came to this place where we understood each other. I hurt you, too. I _wanted_ to make you jealous with Marcus. We've come all this way and finally got married and there's no going back now. We have to share the blame for miscommunicating so badly. But now we _know._ We know that we love each other enough, that we've shared enough life-changing experiences, that we can't ever be separated again. I am so grateful to God to be here with you right now." She says this seemingly all in one breath, and takes a deep breath after. Her cheeks are flushed a deep red.

I wish for the thousandth time that I believed in God so I could be grateful too. I still don't think I deserve this woman. But she has stood by me for over a decade, caring for me from the beginning, becoming my best and dearest friend, believing in me, forgiving me. Literally saving my life. I haven't told her that I nearly ended it all after killing Red John. I'm not going to tell her. I don't ever want to do another thing to make her unhappy. But it's inevitable that I will.

"I love you, Patrick Jane. And now I want to have breakfast in bed with you, so I'm ordering eggs from room service."

She's smiling now, and I can't help smiling back at her. Suddenly the tight strings binding me, strangling me, loosen and I feel relaxed. I am aware for the first time of the softness of the luxurious sheets, the comfort of the featherbed beneath us, the silence of the room except for the distant sound of hushed voices in the corridor.

She's on the phone ordering room service, and it's the first day of our honeymoon. * * *

**I had this idea that season 7 will open with the morning after their wedding. (Or maybe we'll actually get to see the wedding first.) I wanted to explore Jane's continuing sense of unworthiness. His life-changing revelation to Lisbon on the plane, and the romantic kiss that followed, opened the door to the fulfillment of his dream. But his fears and insecurities can't just disappear overnight. He's still learning to be a "normal, decent human being." He has yet to discover that he has always been that person.**

**I don't know if this is just a one-shot or if I will develop it into chapters. I would like them to go to Paris and confront more issues between them, but I don't have a real plot yet. I'd like some adventure and suspense. This story marks the end (I hope) of a severe writer's block for me, because until I had more to go on as to what's going to happen in season 7 I felt I just couldn't write any more. I was shaken to the core over the last scenes of the finale, because it was so much more powerful and emotional than I had expected. And then Heller was quoted as saying that there would be an "encore" in season 7.**

**Then I saw a photo of Robin with a new hairstyle, which means there will be a time jump, though it could be as little as a week or as much as a year. Then the photos of the L.A. Biltmore gave me the idea of their wedding taking place there. Of course, it could just be the setting of another crime drama, or the setting of another Jane ruse to catch the criminal. But it's not beyond the scope of possibility that they get married either on or off camera and then go on a honeymoon. (Though I have to wonder if Abbott will really let his consultant turn off his phone for a few weeks when there are crimes to be solved!) **_**The Mentalist **_**has become a very different show now after the events of the finale, so there are more possibilities than ever. **

**I hope you enjoy this. I welcome any suggestions.**


	2. Chapter 2

I'm worried about Patrick.

He had a dream about Charlotte last night and he doesn't want to talk about it. So I'm not prodding him.

Getting married was not a mistake. We needed to affirm our love in front of our friends. But loving each other isn't enough. We have to be fearless, brave enough to confront our fears and insecurities. We both have them. He still thinks he's broken beyond repair. I still think that I can be the same independent person I was before he declared his love for me. We're afraid we can't make each other happy. Is this any way to begin a marriage?

Maybe we should have waited. We should have talked about Charlotte and Angela. I should have made it clear that although I would love to have a child with him I would understand if he's not ready for that. Or if he's never ready. For all we know, I might not even be able to get pregnant. I'm not even sure about having a kid with my job. What if something happened to me?

What I can't talk to him about is how I'm afraid I'll always be second to Angela and Charlotte.

Maybe I should just accept that. I'm the one who's alive, the one he actually gets to have experiences with.

But if he's always going to feel guilty for their deaths, then how can he enjoy life with me?

If only I didn't feel so powerless to help him.

It's not like I want him to forget them. But I need him to see that I have to be first. I gave him twelve years of my life. I allowed him to destroy any chance I had at career advancement. And yeah, I knew what I was signing up for. I knew that it would be worth it because he closed cases like nothing I had ever seen. But I never thought I'd be sacrificing a part of myself. Never thought I would fall in love with a man who was still in love with his dead wife and obsessed with revenge. A man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, even if it meant having sex with the mistress of his wife's killer in order to gain her confidence so she'd tell him where he was. The horror of this made me sick. I had to force myself to remember that he shot a man to save my life, a man who could have led him to Red John. So he valued me more than his revenge, even though at the end, it didn't seem that way.

I begged him to let me help him kill Red John. I could have killed Red John with impunity, being an officer of the law. Then Patrick wouldn't have had to flee to South America. We might have been together afterwards. But he insisted on keeping me out of it. According to him, it wasn't even my case anymore. It had to be his kill. His revenge. And he couldn't take the smallest chance on me being killed. So he created a cruel ruse, lured me to the beach, acted like he was going to tell me he loved me, and I was an idiot and let him trick me. Sneaked off and took my car. Stranded me so I had to flag down some poor guy and commandeer his car. I still get furious even now when I think of it-I don't know if I can ever forgive him for that.

Once I got to his place in Malibu, I was too late. I was lucky that the explosion didn't kill me. But I was frantic. I was sure Patrick was dead. When I heard he was in the hospital, I rushed to his bedside and refused to leave even when Bertram ordered me to. (That evil bastard. My boss was a criminal. I'm not sorry he's dead.)

The nightmare was far from over. It wasn't even over when I got the phone call from Patrick saying that it was over and he was OK. I knew he wasn't OK. After that, I didn't see him again for two years. I didn't hear from him for a year, and then I began getting letters from him. I'll never forget how I nearly fainted at the sight of the first letter. He apologized for abandoning me at the beach, and said it was strange and sad being without me. More letters followed, and he sent me a seashell which I kept on my desk while I worked at that wretched sheriff's job. But he never wrote that he loved me. Maybe he was still protecting me. Maybe he didn't want me to know because we might never see each other again.

I pretended to be happy at work and with my friends, but alone in my house at night, I read and re-read his letters over and over, and cried. I never dated anyone. I decided to pull a curtain over the part of my life with him in it. But I wasn't really living.

His return to the U.S. indentured to the FBI was a shock and a relief to me. But when I found out that I was the first of his non-negotiable demands, I was outraged that he felt he could just take over my life like that after two years. I was further enraged by the presumption that the FBI would hire me only to keep him happy, as though I were a pet or an inanimate object. I didn't even undergo FBI training. I let him have it on the plane to New York where I'd reluctantly agreed to help with a case. I told him I just wanted to go home. I wasn't going to work with him again. Not if he had so little respect for me.

But then they put him in detention for three months. For refusing to give up his demands. In the end, he won the battle and they gave in to all of his demands because he successfully conned Abbott into thinking he had knowledge of people in high places in the Blake Association. As annoyed as I still was at Patrick, I had to admire his cleverness. And I told myself that I was making the decision to accept the FBI job, that it wasn't so I could be with him, but because it was a job in which I could use my skills instead of authorizing the purchase of office supplies.

But once again I was lying to myself. I loved Patrick Jane, and wanted to be with him, in spite of everything. Humiliating me. Breaking my heart. Making me hate him. That was the real reason I took a job which made me the subject of office gossip. Everyone knew I'd been hired to placate Jane, not for my qualifications. I knew they were contemptuous of me. And condescending! Agent Fischer was particularly hard to take. I wanted to strangle her when she came to my office in Cannon River, asking me to "help" manage Jane. As if that should be my job. I was offended by everyone. Worst of all, I would have to prove myself to a bunch of agents who weren't anywhere near as good as I am. After a long career as a team leader at the CBI. I was bitter, but it was a chance at a new start for me.

I'm proud to say that I earned the respect of my superiors and colleagues. Abbott, who had so coldly dismantled the CBI and considered me a suspect as an accessory to McAllister's murder-Abbott now knows that I am valuable to the organization. Kim Fischer handed me my badge. She still hasn't apologized for asking a bunch of impertinent questions about my relationship with Patrick, or for putting him in a detention cell. But she respects me, as she should. They can't say that I'm there to babysit Patrick anymore.

And then there was that whole crazy long episode with Patrick and me barely speaking and misunderstanding each other when we did speak. I wondered endlessly what he was waiting for, he'd made me his primary demand, didn't that mean he loved me, and if so, why didn't he tell me? I became more and more frustrated and exasperated, pissed off by his antics when he involved me in undercover operations and tricked me into testifying at a fake grand jury. Then he'd charm me by making me his partner in a magic act. I knew I couldn't take this much longer, so when I met Marcus and he obviously wanted me, I welcomed the attention and was pleased to see that it came without games. I wanted so badly to fall in love with someone other than Patrick that I was sure Marcus was the one and I would finally be free of the torment I'd suffered for so long. Even so, I hoped to make Patrick jealous and goad him into declaring his love for me. But he persisted in saying he wanted me to be happy in that maddening way.

And the rest is history…do I really need to keep going over this in my head? Any more of this and I'll be sorry I married him.

What really needs to happen is me talking to him about all of this. Sometime when I'm not feeling sorry for him because he has dreams about his dead daughter and wakes up crying.


	3. Chapter 3

**One week later at a hotel in Paris**

The light, that certain light that only exists in Paris, was streaming through the windows of the elegant modern hotel on the Boulevard St. Germain. Patrick and Teresa were enjoying the beautiful and sumptuous buffet breakfast in the dining room. There were silver trays of eggs, meats, cheeses, tiny croissants, caviar, fruit, and about a dozen other delicacies. And, of course, champagne, if you didn't want _café au lait. _Or both, if you really wanted to go crazy.

"I'm so full, I can't eat one more bite," said Teresa with a contented sigh.

"The French really know how to cook eggs. And the tea is decent. I heard this place was classy, but I had no idea the food would be this good. Well, we're in France, so how bad could it be?" Her companion grinned, never taking his eyes off her. "Did I tell you? You look especially lovely this morning."

"Another week of eating like this, you won't be saying that. I'm gaining weight just looking at that food."

"If you do, you'll still be beautiful. These Parisian women have nothing on you."

"Flatterer."

"It's one of my many talents, as you know."

Teresa stood up. "Let's walk for a while. I need some exercise."

Patrick pulled her chair out for her and encircled her waist with his arm. "It's a beautiful day for walk in Paris."

He began to hum a song, then sang: "A week in Paris/ Should ease the bite of it/All I care is to smile in spite of it."

"And what song is that?"

"_Lush Life _by Billy Strayhorn. I thought you'd know it because you're a jazz fan."

Teresa smiled. "Who sings it?"

"There's a famous version by Johnny Hartman, one of the most underrated jazz singers. I'll get you the CD. You've gotta hear it. Only thing is, it's kind of a depressing song about a lonely guy."

"That was you before we got together, right?"

"You could say that. There's nothing lonelier than than the object of your desire being near you every day, but you can't touch her."

He leaned over to kiss her.

Later, after spending the day exploring the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, where Patrick dumbfounded Teresa with his voluminous knowledge of art history, and then stopping for drinks at a café, the newlyweds returned to the hotel, grateful for the chance to sit on the comfortable loveseat in their suite, which had sleek modern furniture and modern art prints on the walls. Patrick ordered a bottle of vintage champagne from room service, and they silently sipped it as they stroked and nuzzled each other. They were both thoughtful, not speaking. They didn't have to speak, because they knew each other's thoughts so well even if they couldn't read them, because there are no real psychics, not even two people who have been lovers for years in everything but the physical sense. The wondrous physical sense was something they were just beginning to explore together in this city of lovers, in this luxurious hotel, and they were hoping that Abbott would grant them just another week, or maybe two, so they wouldn't have to leave yet.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.

And then Teresa's phone beeped. She had a text message from Abbott.

_Cut it short. Take the first flight to L.A. You're staying at the Biltmore again. Someone will brief you when you get there._

Patrick gave Teresa a meaningful look.

"So, the honeymoon's over."

Teresa sighed. "We have to get the first plane out."

**Author's note: Sorry this is so short, but I just got an idea and I'm developing it.**

**The description of the hotel is based on a real hotel I stayed at in Paris with my partner back in 2007.**

**Don't worry…this isn't their last trip to Paris.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Almost lost in L.A.**

Agent Fischer lay in the Los Angeles hospital bed, kept alive by tubes, wires and IVs from suspended bottles of fluid. She wasn't stupid-she hadn't forgotten to wear her vest. No, the person who shot her did so by ambushing her as she stepped out of her car right in front of her house. Coming home after a long day at work. She didn't even get a glimpse of her assailant before he or she had shot enough bullets into her side and chest to kill her. She was very lucky not to have died then and there, able to gasp "911" into her phone after she fell onto the hard asphalt of her driveway. The ambulance was there within minutes, but the first responders were Jane and Lisbon, who had been tailing her as they had been instructed by the agent in charge. By the time they got to her, the shooter had fled.

The black SUV screeched to a halt in the driveway and Lisbon burst from the vehicle, followed by Jane.

Lisbon seized hold of Fischer while squatting on the pavement. "Get a blanket from the van. Quick!" she cried to Jane. "She's losing blood!" Jane came running with a blanket.

"I called 911 and the office," he said, regarding Fischer with shock. Lisbon spread the blanket over Fischer and said, "Kim, stay with me. Don't go to sleep. Help is on the way. Stay with me." She retained a calm demeanor, but inside she was writhing in terror for her comrade. Her experienced eye told her that few people survive gunshot wounds like this. She had Fischer's head and shoulders propped on her knees, with one hand stroking her hair and the other fingering the cross pendant she always wore. "Oh God. Please. Don't take her. She's too young," she whispered. Fischer's eyes kept rolling upwards in an alarming way and her pulse was barely detectable. The blanket was soaked with blood. Lisbon was about to administer CPR when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over.

"May I ride in the ambulance with her?" Lisbon flashed her badge.

"Certainly," replied the young paramedic. "We've got a couple of people working on her right now, but there's room. Hop in."

"Jane! Take the car keys and meet me at the hospital." She tossed them to Jane, who was standing near the doors of the ambulance, too horrified to speak or move. "No, wait, first look around the crime scene to see if you can get anything."

"I was just about to."

But the ambulance doors had closed and it was speeding to the hospital.

No time to break in and grab a cup of tea. He tried to gather his thoughts, but the image of Fischer lying on the ground soaked in blood would not leave him. He was ashamed that his first thought had been _Thank God it wasn't Teresa. _Of course, "Thank God" was merely a figure of speech to him, a way of saying, _Thank my lucky stars_, for if there was one thing Patrick Jane believed in, it was luck. And Fischer had been dealt some bad cards and might lose the poker game. Very likely to lose the game, in fact.

The FBI was already there, yellow-taping the driveway. Agents scurried here and there, jockeying for position with crime scene photographers and forensics people. Jane got down on his hands and knees and sniffed the bloody pavement. He got up and examined the shrubbery and the lawn for prints. At least no one was distracting him with stupid questions. Teresa wouldn't, of course. He walked around the house and up and down the driveway. He searched for tire tracks. Nothing. He took another close look at the pavement and the ground. And then the impossible: he found a human hair. Blonde and straight. Not Fischer's. He picked it up carefully in a tissue and put it in his jacket pocket. Just then, his phone buzzed. It was Abbott.

"Jane, I've got an update on Fischer and it isn't good. She's lost a lot of blood and sustained damage to her lung and several other organs. Where are you now?"

"At the crime scene. I found a human hair."

"You _what_?"

"A blonde hair. Woman's hair. I found one on the driveway."

"Run it for DNA. No other clues? No footprints? No prints on the car?"

"I'm afraid that's all I've got."

"Well, finding a hair indicates a pretty thorough search. Good work, Jane. I'll be in touch."

"Hey Teresa. I found a blonde hair at the crime scene, but nothing else. I have to give it to the DNA people. So I won't get to the hospital right away."

"It's OK. She's still in surgery. Had a couple of transfusions. They don't know if she'll make it."

Jane swallowed hard.

"My first thought was "Thank God it wasn't you." That's really awful, right?

"No. Understandable. I thought of you, too. When can you get here?"

"I'll get there as soon as I drop this off."

"Please hurry. It's stressing me out being here alone. Her family hasn't arrived yet and I need to prepare what I'm going to say."

"I love you."

"Me too."

When Jane arrived at the hospital, he headed for the large waiting area for family members whose loved ones were in surgery. There was a coffee maker, some donuts on a plate, bottles of water, and a shelf full of bedraggled paperbacks.

A large desk ran the length of the room, at which three staff members sat. The room was full of grim-faced people. Jane surveyed the room for Lisbon, and caught sight of her at the coffee machine, adding creamer and sugar to a paper cup of brew.

Without a word, Jane embraced her tightly, and they stayed like this for a few moments. Then Jane spoke.

"All the seats are taken in here. Let's go out into the lobby."

Lisbon had dark circles under her eyes, and the frown line between her eyes was pronounced. Jane wondered when she had last eaten anything. She was pale, and she clutched the paper cup. "Come on," he said gently, encircling her waist with his arm. They took the escalator down to the lobby.

"We need to go back in there for an update from the surgical nurse."

"I'll go. You wait here."

"I think I want to go to the chapel and pray for her." Lisbon's right hand was clutching the cross she wore, and her left clutched her coffee cup.

"OK. I'll meet you there. And I'll get you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something anyway."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "All right."

After kissing her briefly on the lips, Jane sprinted back to the waiting area, where he asked a weary-looking middle-aged woman if he could speak to a surgical nurse.

"Patient's name?"

"Kim Fischer, FBI."

"And you are?"

"Patrick Jane, FBI consultant." He flashed his plastic ID tag.

"I'll see what I can do." She used the desk phone to call the nurse. "She says she'll be right down."

A minute later, a plump blonde woman in surgical scrubs entered the room. "Patrick Jane?"

"Right here, ma'am." He looked into her eyes.

"I'm Laura McDonald. I've been assisting the surgeon, Dr. Kress, for about two hours. She's been in there since seven thirty, and she'd been there for an hour before my shift started." She paused, softening her voice. "You're FBI, right?"

"I'm a consultant."

"Mr. Jane, you've seen a lot of bad bullet wounds. And I'm sorry to tell you that this is one of the worst cases we've ever seen. We're doing everything we can, but she may not make it." She sighed. "She'll be in there at least another couple of hours. Someone will let you know if there is any change."

"Thank you, Laura."

Jane watched as the nurse left the room. His gaze swept the room again, resting on each face, noting the alternation between hope and despair, the fatigue, and occasionally the anger, imprinted there. Faces of people waiting, fearing the worst, praying for the best. He became aware that he was the only person waiting there alone, and wondered how people who had to wait there alone felt. He thought about Kim, lying on that table, being worked on by five or six people trying to keep her heart beating. He had a sudden image of her in his mind, walking with him on the beach when he was on the island. He remembered how he'd thought for a moment about sleeping with her and had even removed his ring, only to put it back on when thoughts of Teresa haunted him.

She'd never apologized for putting him in detention. Truthfully, he hadn't trusted her since her undercover op, and he had no respect for her as an agent after she nearly blew her cover several times. She wasn't one-tenth the agent Teresa was. And yet, he knew that if she were not so preoccupied with impressing her superiors and let down her guard for a minute, a whole new Kim would emerge like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. She'd remember what it was like when she was eight and wanted a magic wand. That's what he'd hoped when he'd given her one. She wasn't suited for a job in law enforcement. If she'd only pursued writing children's books instead. That's what she wanted to do before she joined the FBI.

Teresa wasn't in the chapel praying when he got there. She was leaning against the wall outside the chapel door, tired eyes downcast, lips drawn into a tight line. She looked up as he approached, trying to smile.

"She's going to be in surgery for a while. They're still trying to save her."

"So there's hope?"

"Not much. The nurse said it was the worst case she'd ever seen."

Teresa and Patrick walked toward each other until they were in a tight embrace which led to a surprisingly passionate and lengthy kiss. "We're still on our honeymoon," said Patrick. "I know it sounds terrible. But even though this has happened, we can't stop making up for lost time. Twelve years to be exact."

"Mm, you're right, but I'm sleepy. And hungry."

"Go sit in the lobby. I'll go and get you some food. But no more coffee. I want you to sleep on the couch. I've got this-I gave the woman at the desk my number and told her to call with an update on Kim."

They separated, Teresa on her way to the nearby lobby, Patrick to the twenty-four hour snack bar, where he got a sandwich, some chips, and a bottle of water for Teresa. He got tea and a sandwich for himself. Then he joined her in the lobby, a large cold area in an atrium with several floors above it. There were several large brown fake leather couches and armchairs, some chrome side tables, and a hideous blue and green carpet. A large vase of lilies and hydrangeas occupied the central coffee table.

"I wish we had a blanket," said Teresa. Patrick took off his jacket and spread it over her reclining form. He sat on the edge of the couch and passed his hand over her eyes. "Sleep, before I have to hypnotize you."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"OK, no hypnosis. But you really need to sleep."

"What about you?"

"I'm used to surviving on very little sleep. I'll stand watch. I promise to wake you as soon as I know anything."

She yawned and turned over onto her right side, curled into a fetal position. He kissed her cheek and then her hair.

Teresa awoke as the sky was getting light. Patrick was sitting in the armchair near the couch. He saw her eyes open and knelt by her side.

"Good news. I just spoke to Dr. Kress, who's a great cardiac surgeon. She's pulled through. Fantastically lucky. Still not out of the woods, though. In intensive care. Waking up. Only one of us can visit her at a time. You first?"

"Thank God." Teresa sat up, rubbed her eyes, raked her fingers through her hair, and put her boots back on.

"Come with me. There's a waiting area in the ICU."

They took the elevator to the fifth floor.

Teresa tentatively poked her head into the room. "Kim?"

She heard a groan from the bed. "Can I come in?"

When there was no response, Teresa edged toward the bed. She'd been in too many intensive care rooms in her career, and this one was no different. Computer monitors hooked up to a half dozen lifelines. A helpless, wan patient drifting in and out of consciousness. It was Kim, all right, she thought, then almost laughed. Who else would it be? But it was Kim transformed. She looked small and frail, even though she was a tall, broad-shouldered woman. Her lank hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The covers were up to her chin, so Teresa couldn't see the bandages that encased Kim like a mummy. Her thin arms rested on top of the covers. IVs and a hospital bracelet. Her eyes were closed.

"Kim? Are you awake?" The almond-shaped eyes opened and the dry lips parted. Kim's face, always thin with prominent cheekbones, was drawn and hollow after her ordeal.

In a whisper, she said: "Blake…"

"Blake Association?" urged Teresa. "You have some new evidence. Where is it?"

"Safe. My house. Get Jane."

Teresa sat in the hard chair next to the bed and gently laid her hand on Kim's arm.

"Don't try to talk anymore. And don't worry about recovering the evidence. Jane and I'll do it. And you have twenty-four/seven protection."

"Teresa?"

"Kim?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Jane…detention…trying to…separate you…"

"Kim, you were just doing your job. You have nothing to apologize for. And Jane…Patrick…was probably better off after being in detention. You have no idea how many times I've wanted to put him in a cell myself. And that room was pretty comfortable." She smiled, but Kim didn't smile back. She winced in pain, and pushed the button for more morphine.

"If there's anything I can do. Anything at all. Do your parents have a place to stay? Any messages for Abbott?"

"That's so kind…Teresa…but I don't…need anything."

"Is it OK if Jane comes in for a minute? I'll be back tomorrow. I hope you heal quickly."

"Jane…"

"I'll send him in."

"Don't try to talk, Kim. You need your energy to heal. Teresa and I have this thing covered, and there's some other agents working on it too. I went over the crime scene with a fine-toothed comb and found nothing but a blonde woman's hair. Did you get a look at the shooter? Just nod yes if you did."

Kim shook her head.

"Did you have any visitors with long blonde hair?"

"No…" Kim winced again.

"You know, I can hypnotize you so the pain doesn't hurt as much. You have morphine, but there's a limit to how much they can give you."

"No…I'm OK…Jane?

"Kim?"

"I'm sorry… undercover…lying...detention…separating you and Teresa." Speaking was obviously costing her effort.

"Don't give it another thought. You need to get well. And right now I'm going to get into that safe and grab that evidence."

"Be…careful. And Jane? Could you bring…my wand?"

A huge smile spread over his face. "Just tell me where it is."

"Drawer…in closet…bedroom."

"You got it."

Kim closed her eyes.

"I'll let you sleep now," said Jane softly as he opened the door to leave.

**Thank you all for your reviews! I really appreciate all feedback.**

**Again, thanks so much for the reviews. I'm having all kinds of trouble with : it posted the same chapter twice as chapter 4 and chapter 5. I'm attempting to fix this problem. I also have a problem with the text separators used to divide the chapter into mini-chapters. I tried using asterisks and it does not support them. I just now tried underline, but in the past it hasn't supported them either. So if conversations seem disjointed (for example, there's supposed to be a break between Jane's phone convo with Abbott and his convo with Lisbon, and it doesn't show up when I post my document. ) If anyone knows how to fix this, please let me know. I don't know HTML or any othe kind of code, so hopefully there's a way to do it without it. Or a simple HTML command? I appreciate it, thanks!**


	5. Lost in LA Chapter 5

**Charlotte**

I'm in bed at the hotel after a traumatic night at the hospital. Teresa's fast asleep. We didn't talk much about Kim because we were so exhausted that we fell asleep almost immediately.

Ever the insomniac, I awoke after two hours. Images of Kim's bloody body lying on the driveway haunted me in my dreams. It seems to be a bad omen that she was shot and nearly killed, and reminds me how easily Teresa or I could be shot as well. Blood reminds me of that horrific scene I witnessed long ago: my dear ones covered in so much blood! At least this time it's not my fault.

My fault! "Charlotte" says it wasn't my fault, and so does Teresa. "Charlotte" is merely my unconscious mind speaking, so I must believe deep down that it wasn't my fault. Though if I hadn't mouthed off on TV that night he wouldn't have been insulted and they might still be alive. Yes, it was my fault! I made a terrible mistake because I was so pumped up with self-importance and so arrogant. That a smart serial killer like him would know where I live and retaliate the way he did never entered my mind. And I'm supposed to be the smartest person in the room. Of course I'd like to believe that somehow it wasn't my fault, but the facts say otherwise. But am I going to torture myself with this for the rest of my life? When will I have been punished enough? And, more importantly, I'm punishing Teresa too. I have to let go of this somehow so I can truly move on with her.

I get up from the bed and walk restlessly around the room. I'm not in a hurry to get those files from Kim's house, but Abbott's going to hound me if I don't have them before the end of the day. I open the doors to the balcony and step outside into the fresh breeze. It's hot outside, so the breeze is an unexpected pleasure. I close my eyes and concentrate on how good the warmth and the breeze feel on my skin and hair. The view doesn't interest me—L.A. isn't a beautiful city like Paris. I find myself thinking about the last conversation I had with Teresa at this hotel two weeks ago. About having a child with her. Life is short, and death can come quickly and without warning, especially in our line of work. If only she could quit her job…but she loves her job and I can't ask her to quit just because I worry about her and with a child it would be even worse. I'm afraid that the single biggest thing separating us is her love of her work, whereas I prefer to work as little as possible. When I need money, I can always win big at the poker tables. And I've won a lot of money she doesn't know about which is sitting quietly in several offshore bank accounts. It's not illegal. I won it fair and square. Well, to be strictly honest, there was some card counting involved. OK, so I'm not perfect. I'm not sure how to tell her about this. I don't want to have secrets from her, but it's so hard to be open when you've been guarded your whole life. So much to talk about. And all I want is to be lazy with her, to get her to relax, play hooky from work.

I glance behind me, and she's still asleep. I don't want to wake her. I've given up trying to sleep. I look back out over the balcony and then I see it. An apparition. No. I don't believe in these things. Maybe I'm about to have a psychotic break? But it's Charlotte again, sitting on the railing, looking so real that I want to grab her and pull her away lest she fall. It's just my mind playing tricks again. She's wearing denim short shorts and a sleeveless red shirt, and she's barefoot. Her fingernails and toenails are painted red. I think of Red John and then the blood again, and I shudder. What is my brain doing to me? If only I could rip it out of my head!

"You know, Dad, you can have another kid. I don't mind. I'd like to see you being a dad again—you were so good at it!" She is grinning that grin that looks so much like mine.

"You're not real! You're just my mind playing tricks on me!" I shout, forgetting that I might wake Teresa. I lower my voice and say, "I'm going to talk to you as if you were real. But I'm keeping an eye on Teresa and if she wakes up you have to disappear."

"She won't be able to see or hear me unless I want her to."

"Yeah, but remember how worried she was when I was speaking to a non-existent person, the first time I saw you with the belladonna. She's going to think I've lost my mind. And I'm not sure I haven't. I don't believe in ghosts or the afterlife. You are just me. My mind. But maybe it's not such a bad idea to have a talk with myself."

"Sure! If that's what you want to believe. Ask me anything, I'll give you advice. Though you never listen to me."

"OK: my bank accounts. Tell her or not?"

"Tell her. What's the worst that can happen?"

"She'll think I'm a degenerate, a gambler, and her moral principles will make her tell me to give it back. As if I even _could_. She'll think less of me."

"I doubt it. I think she'll appreciate your honesty."

I roll my eyes.

Charlotte sighs. "I told you, you never listen."

"I do! I'm listening. OK, what about having a kid? When?"

"You need to ask her that. Be brave. Be honest. If you don't think you can do it, say so. You need practice verbalizing your feelings. This gives you a chance."

"What about her work ethic and my total lack of it?"

"That could be a tough one. She loves her job. You can't tell her to quit to have a kid just because it's dangerous being an agent."

I suddenly feel too sad to continue with this. Although this time, it's not as wrenching to think about Charlotte disappearing because she has a way of reappearing and I don't even need to ingest belladonna. I'm almost comforted by her.

"You're feeling discouraged, I can tell. But Mom and I both think you've done a great thing by marrying Teresa. If you're as honest as you can be with her, you won't have to worry. You two can work anything out. Just don't hide things and don't be embarrassed to talk about personal stuff."

"Personal? Like what?"

Now it's Charlotte who's rolling her eyes.

"Dad! Do I have to spell it out for you? You know…what went down with Lorelei and Erica and how you didn't love them—make that clear—and Kristina too. And this might be a good time to talk about Kim on the island. Tell her that nothing happened between you and Kim. Maybe you shouldn't tell her you took your ring off and then put it back on, though. She might wonder why you didn't take off your ring for _her_ earlier. And what about when you thought about killing yourself after you killed Red John? That it was part of your original plan but you realized that you had someone to live for, so instead you called Teresa. She saved you."

"You know, you're right. I need to start the conversation. But what do I start with? There's so many things."

"It doesn't matter which thing you start with. The important thing is, say what's on your mind and in your heart and don't be afraid."

"Excellent advice…I'll do what you say this time."

"Good!" The spritely blue eyes were full of mischief again. "I have to go, Dad. I'll be back."

"When?"

But she was gone.

**Teresa**

We're sitting at the breakfast table at ten a.m., late for us, and we need to hurry so we can get to Kim's place and retrieve the B.A. files. And Kim's wand. Patrick told me she asked for it. Maybe when she comes back to work we can be friends. She's not as harsh as she appears to be. I just hope she gets better.

I want to talk to Patrick about the things that have been on my mind since before the honeymoon. Before the wedding, even. Our biggest problem is communication. I am in the habit of assuming he can always read me and knows what I'm thinking and feeling. And he can't. He thinks that I'm predictable, and he goes by his assumptions, which annoys me. And we haven't talked yet about keeping things from me. That's going to be very tough, a sore point with him. He's not going to want to tell me things if he thinks telling me will endanger my life. It's pointless to tell him that it's my job to be in harm's way. Even though he got me this job, he'd prefer it if I were doing something safe. Or not working at all, so the two of us could be idle together and tour the country in his metal bucket (like that's gonna happen.) Anyone can see that he doesn't care about solving crimes or closing cases. He doesn't see it as making restitution for killing three people. He sees it as fulfilling his end of the deal he made with Abbott. And at the end of five years, he'll quit and who knows what kind of job he'll get?

Why didn't we hash this out before getting married? We barely touched on these points. We have to get clear on them before we can even think about having a child.

After a quick breakfast, we head out for Kim's house. We have her key, so Patrick doesn't have to pick the lock. The safe's another matter, though. I leave him in the living room to tinker with it while I look for Kim's wand in her bedroom. I go to the closet immediately and open the top drawer of a small bureau. And it's there, sitting on top of a pile of T shirts. I pick it up carefully. If only I could wave it and make Kim healed, like new again. I remember her face, how enchanted she was with Jane's gift. (I must remember to ask him how the hell he knew that she always wanted one.) She had a soft smile on her face. I was feeling a little jealous because Patrick hadn't got me any gift. He did get me that pony, but that was a long time ago, and all of a sudden he's going around the office giving people gifts? His motive is pretty obvious: win them over, and they'll stop hassling him. The wand seemed to have the desired effect on her. And I remember talking to her later after work, when she told me that she wanted to write children's books, but thought she couldn't make a living doing that.

I suddenly feel like an intruder in her bedroom, violating her most private space. But my detective's eye takes note of details automatically. The neatly made, non-girly bed with its light blue blankets and blue throw pillows. No photos of a boyfriend or family members. The only artwork on the wall across from the bed is a large poster of a fairy, a beautiful Edwardian illustration from Grimm's Fairy Tales. And sitting on the bureau is a fairy doll. No bigger than a Barbie, she has glittery hair, a crown of flowers, a long lavender gauze dress, and delicate gauzy wings. She's holding a tiny silver wand.

I feel tears prick my eyes, thinking of the woman in the hospital bed, so terribly broken like a doll that has been thrown against a wall. A lonely single woman who didn't follow her dreams. A woman who pretends to be tough and harsh, who won't admit that she's terrible at undercover work (though incredibly, it seems to have worked with Patrick.) An unhappy woman who hides her sadness from people who know her. And maybe now she'll die alone. Her parents came and left. No siblings came. No boyfriend or girlfriend. If she lives, I'm going to be a better friend to her. That's a promise.

I am so lost in my thoughts that I've almost forgotten what we are here for. "Patrick?" I call out. "Yes, dear?" he sings.

"Did you find the files?"

"Oh, they're here all right. And by the looks of them, there's some pretty interesting stuff here. But I don't think Abbott'll be happy to read it."

"Higher-ups implicated in crimes?"

"Worse than that. There's good evidence from CIs and surveillance that high level FBI personnel were directly or indirectly involved in quite a few murders."

"You read them already!"

"Well, I _am_ a speed reader. But no, I didn't peruse them carefully. I'll leave that to you. Let's just say I saw enough to blow the FBI wide open."

I breathe in sharply. This is what I've been afraid of for a long time. If there's widespread corruption at the FBI, where can we go for law enforcement? Is there any law enforcement at all? Do those of us who are innocent have to band together like a bunch of comic book superheroes to fight crime without the force of the law behind us?

I feel my spine tingling with fear. How do we even know who we can trust? Is Abbott clean? Kim?

They can't be involved. We've been working with them for a year now. Don't we know them? Doesn't Patrick read them? Is the whole miserable business about to begin again even though Red John is dead? Will it _ever _stop?

Patrick comes over to me and draws me close to him. "I know what you're thinking," he says.

"So your psychic abilities are coming back now that we're married?" I say, trying to smile.

"It's scary. I don't blame you for being scared and upset, at a loss what to do. I'm feeling that way myself. I'll come up with a plan, but I'm going to need to talk to some people and get some more evidence besides this blonde hair." He begins to pace around the living room. "I'm absolutely sure that a woman tried to kill Kim and that she's connected to the Blake Administration. But that doesn't exactly narrow things down."

He opens cabinets, peers under furniture, lifts up the rug, gets on his hands and knees to inspect the floor. "As long as we're here, we should look around for clues."

"I feel…funny doing that in Kim's house. Like we're invading her privacy. The inside of the house isn't a crime scene, so we're not required to search it."

"But that's exactly why we need to search. The killer has almost certainly been in this house and has unknowingly left signs of her presence."

"How do you know that? How do you know the killer is a woman from one blonde hair on the driveway?"

"There's no photos of any friends or family in the living room. Kim's a solitary and independent person with few friends and no boyfriend. This woman was an acquaintance or a relative, someone posing as a friend, or maybe an FBI person we don't know. Who else would come to your home if you're Kim?"

"She could have been selling Mary Kay cosmetics."

"Kim's not the type to buy makeup from a door to door salesperson."

"Patrick, here's Kim's laptop," I say, spying it on a table. "Let's bring it to Wylie and see what we can learn. And then we can give it to her in the hospital if they let her have it. Her phone is at the hospital and I'm sure she'd let us look at it..." I hesitate for a moment. "You should look at her bedroom. It makes me sad."

"You find the wand?"

"Yes," I answer, flourishing it.

Patrick regards me thoughtfully. "I think you're too emotionally involved to search the house. Why don't you let me do it, and in the meantime go get a cup of coffee and bring me back a tea. And then you can go over the files with a fine-tooth comb."

"OK," I sigh. "You're right. I feel so guilty for every mean thought I've had about Kim. She isn't at all what she appears to be. You were right when you said that she's really the woman on the island. Which, by the way, I'd like an explanation of. Not that it really matters." (Though it does matter.)

"I've been meaning to talk about that to you. Tonight, OK?"

I try to smile. "OK. I'll be back in a few minutes." Then I kiss him on the cheek and go out to the SUV and drive off to get our drinks. I've got the files with me in case there's a line at the coffee place. It's going to be a long day.


End file.
